


Come Morning Light

by RhineGold



Series: darling, everything's on fire [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU of the First Story in the Series, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deal with a Devil, M/M, Mutilation, Pirates, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:13:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29819922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: There is something off-putting about spending too much time on dry land. He's never liked doing so, not since an ill-spent youth became a pirates life for him, and tonight is no exception. Still, duty calls, and here he stands, making small talk with a man as ill-fitted to this castle as he. The work is simple, almost insultingly so. Deliver a cache of silver and return with weaponry and supplies. It would be child's play if he actually intended to do it, but of course, there's little chance of that.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Hordor/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: darling, everything's on fire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192058
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Can you believe that this story hid in my Dropbox for YEARS under the name "gotalittlecaptaininhim"???
> 
> Anyway, this is a stand-alone AU of the world built for the story "all that's dead and gone and passed". It's set much earlier in the 'universe' and suddenly, like in the show, the Frontlands has a harbor! (I have no idea either).

There is something off-putting about spending too much time on dry land. He's never liked doing so, not since an ill-spent youth became a pirates life for him, and tonight is no exception. Still, duty calls, and here he stands, making small talk with a man as ill-fitted to this castle as he. The work is simple, almost insultingly so. Deliver a cache of silver and return with weaponry and supplies. It would be child's play if he actually intended to do it, but of course, there's little chance of that. 

Somehow, though, he thinks the man knows it. The look he gives the captain is hard and reptilian. The man would pass for a snake if he weren't so broad. "I suppose you're wondering why I sent for you, Captain Jones."

He lets his fingers dance along the tapestry he's paused in front of before shifting back towards his host. "I imagine it's because you want the best."

"You must be aware that, even for a man such as yourself, you have a bit of a reputation."

He smiles at that, because how can he not? "I was given to understand there was no lady of the house? So you've nothing to fear there."

"I was referring to your duplicity."

"Ah." The tone of the room has darkened now. Behind him, he can feel the prickling between his assorted crewmates and the loose throng of soldiers lining the opposite wall. 

"I admire a man who adheres to his principles," The lord continues. "So long as those principles benefit the both of us," Definitely reptilian, that gaze. Not a dragon, either. Too petty for that. He's sure the perfect comparison will come in time. 

"Do I detect a second set of instructions, commander?"

"You can keep half of the silver if you bring it and the weapons back with you." 

"Robbing your suppliers? That's bold," He comments, keeping his tone as light as the fingertips that continue to dance across the furniture. They both see him filch the letter opener from the table but no one says a word. 

"It would be a shame if some sort of... pirate... were to strike, mere minutes after our merchant vessel departed."

It's not an appealing job - could be messy, and half the silver is less than all of it, besides. But it is sneaky, is different, and it sounds _fun_. "Shame these things happen, in these troubled times we live in," He murmurs. 

And so they understand one another.

~*~

He accepts the invitation to dine. There is good wine to be had in this country, and his men could use the chance to rest their legs and fill their bellies, particularly on someone else's coin. There are wenches too, and boys milling about - there's a war on, after all, and they seem to take them quite young. Killian isn't interested in children. The women are tempting, but it's more interesting to watch his host instead. 

Once the man has finished the meat of his meal, the commander signals to one of the passing servants. The man nods and hurries away, returning a few minutes later with more housepersons - slaves and servants, by the look of their clothes. They are nicely dressed, by most standards, but in simpler garb. The wrist cuffs give them away, in any event. Like children, Killian has never had much interest in slaves. And yet.

He comes slower than the rest, leaning heavily on a worn wooden staff, as he favors his right leg badly. He isn't young, not quite pretty, but there is something attractive, something feminine, in the curve of his hips and the length of his hair. The other slaves disperse amongst the soldiers and sailors, but he only has eyes for his lord. As soon as he is within arm's reach, the commander has him by the waist, drawing him down with a grip that is firm and powerful, but not entirely unkind. Still, he makes a soft sound, as though he is surprised by the gesture. The wooden staff clatters to the floor, unnoticed, and the slave clutches briefly at his master's tunic before balancing himself, curling his arms around his own neckline instead.

Looking up, the commander meets Killian's gaze then, even and direct. Proud. One of his hands curls possessively around the slave's back, fingers trailing down below his waist, petting heavily at the thin material of the robe he wears. He can only just make out his face, obscured by the angle and his hair - the crooked nose and long, dark lashes on that pale cheek. He is blushing and it is more charming than Killian would care to admit. He revises his assessment of the slave - pretty after all. 

"My boy," the commander offers, never breaking the captain's gaze. He smooths his hands up the small man's shoulders, running them down each arm, tugging the limbs behind his back gently. With a motion that speaks of familiarity and ease, he takes the ends of the sash at his waist, using the material to loosely bind his hands behind his back. There is a soft ripple of sound as the slave protests, but it is silenced immediately by a quick, firm squeeze of his forearm. Killian can see the imprint of fingers standing out white against his skin. 

There is a touch at his elbow, one of his men, and he is talking quietly with the soldier. Killian watches the slave balance precariously on his knee for a moment, but his attention is taken by one of the wenches sliding practically in his lap. Breaking his gaze from that long dark hair and trembling back, he turns his gaze (and hands) upon the blonde woman instead. It's impolite to refuse a gift, after all. 

~*~

It's some time later when a sharp, ragged gasp catches his attention. Looking up, he sees that his host is enjoying himself, content to toy with his property while the others around him devolve into a more overt form of depravity. Still, it is easily the most erotic thing in the room - carefully, oh-so-carefully, the commander nudges his knee up and down, flexing his leg to push the man straddling him upwards before letting him back down. The real show is in the smaller man's legs. Killian can see the muscles in those thin thighs flexing as he attempts to keep his balance perfect. To sway to one side is to risk letting his bad leg bump the floor, and so he clenches down, grinding himself against the knee between his legs with each upwards thrust. The motion should be crushing his manhood, but though the soft sounds he is making sound distressed, they are not at the level it seems they might have been. 

The woman in his lap turns with him, following his gaze. "Poor Rumpel," she murmurs quietly, and there is a genuine look of sorrow in her eyes. It makes him realize how false her flirtations have been, and he moves his hands to the table, bracing his weight casually, reaching for his ale. She notices his cooling passions and murmurs an excuse. He lets her slip away, not even bothering to answer. Across the table, the commander has noticed his renewed interest. 

"See something you like, captain?" He calls, voice thick from drink and amusement. He cards his fingers downward, twisting into the slave's hair, jerking his head back with little of the near-tenderness he'd shown earlier. "He's a pretty thing, if you give him the chance..."

He lifts his mug at that, drinking deep to avoid a direct response. He doesn't care for slaves. Its not sporting when they can't run. And yet.

"A night," He hears himself saying. It feels like someone else moving his lips, but the heat in his groin is familiar as the wheel beneath his palm on a calm night. "You've asked me for something rather... delicate. I think I'd like something in kind in return."

The commander sits forward then, shifting his weight and making the man in his lap cry out softly. The thigh between his legs is hard now, taut, and the grip on his hair forces him to arch his back, keeping him pressed down too firmly to be comfortable. Killian knows he should be angry on the slave's behalf, should want to alleviate his suffering, to sooth the way his brow pinches in discomfort. Instead, he finds himself wondering what it would feel like to sink his fingers in that hair; to lick a stripe up that long throat. 

"The slave," He says, his voice as firm as the length in his trousers now. "And a bed to take him in. For the night."

The lord smiles, reptilian - crocodilian. "Done." 

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

He is shown to the room by the servant he'd seen earlier - a small, mousey man with long fingers and pale eyes. The simpering way he hunches his shoulders is as annoying as the high, sour tone of his voice. Finally, once the fire is stoked and his wine is poured, the Captain is left in blessed silence. 

It allows him to hear clearly the muffled, rhythmic sound of a staff striking the floor. 

The door opens, just barely enough for the wisp of a man to slip inside, and then it is closed sharply behind him. He jumps at the heavy sound, going still as his eyes adjust to the low light. He is biting his lip, and Killian wonders if he even knows why he is here yet. 

He looks confused, at the fire, at the man seated before him. And then he looks beyond him, to the rich bed, complete with lavish dressings, and the expression on his face sinks from bewilderment to wide-eyed realization.

"Thought you'd come to do some chores, did you?" He calls out, recapturing that dark gaze. "...Well... I think I can find you something, now." 

For a moment, he wonders if the man will bolt. Half-turned towards the door, the small man looks both despondent and outraged. Then his shoulders slacken and his expression collapses inwards, making him look both sad and older. It won't do. 

Killian stands then, setting aside the wine. With a gentlemanly, sweeping gesture, he indicates the bed. "Shall we?"

The pause is delectable. The man can't refuse, but every line in his body screams protest. Finally, with the soft sound of his staff obscuring his heavy breathing, he makes his way across the room. Killian grins.

~*~

He tries to make himself small, sitting lightly on the side of the bed, eyes downcast. There is a faint flush across both cheeks, and it is as endearing as the way he lowers his hands to his lap and wrings them. Killian reaches out and takes hold of the staff he's left resting against the headboard, pulling it further away until it is out of easy reach. The man goes still then, staring at his lap, shoulders hunched up near his ears. 

"Get in the middle of the bed," He says quietly, and the husky note in his own voice surprises him. There is a long pause and his irritation flares, making him reach out and catch the slave by his chin. Dark, dark brown eyes meet his, and he goes still for a moment, surprised by the intensity in that expression - misery, fear, and a tiny, tiny spark of something that just might be defiance. He slings the man's head back with the flick of one wrist, pushing hard enough to bowl the slight man over. 

He falls onto his back with a sharp huff of surprise, his wrists falling on either side of his head in a gesture that is submissive and placating. But Killian is certain he saw a glimpse of rebellion there, and he is not gentle as he drapes himself over that prone body. Now, the slave flinches, cringing back against the bedspread, and he is not imagning the tightening of his throat as his pulse quickens. 

"You are a pretty little thing, aren't you?" He murmurs, surprising himself again. Brushing his fingers across that long, pale throat, he tests the softness and the elasticity of the man's skin. He feels smooth and young, despite the lines round his eyes and the sliver of silver beginning to show at the temple. "What's your name?"

"...Rumpelstiltskin," The man whispers back, both of them being oddly quiet despite being alone in the room. The spell of intimacy is compelling, and he laughs despite himself.

"That's rather a mouthful, isn't it? Suppose that's why he calls you 'boy,'" 

At the mention of his master, the slave's eyes cloud over again, and the look of betrayal returns, full-force. He bites his lip and looks away, but Killian grips his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze again.

"Tell me, boy... How many times has he whored you out like this? Sold your flesh to buy his desires, to any man with means?"

The words hit their target and he sees the anger there, outrage and pride, strange garments for a bedslave, and he realizes he is something more than just a body to his lord. There is something personal in their relationship, and he likely has never been shared before.

"Or is that it, then? Why... He must want those weapons rather badly, to give up his prized wench as easy as that." He smiles cruelly, squeezing down to clutch that twitching throat, curling his thumb into the gap beside his adam's apple, lightly, lightly cutting off his air. "You think you're something special to him, and yet, here you are. A whore all the same, being used as a manner of coin to buy the services of a right scoundrel... Guess he doesn't care for you the way you thought, after all..."

There are tears in those dark eyes now, though whether from the lack of air or the pointed words, he cannot say, so he releases his throat with a sweeping gesture. After all, it wouldn't do to kill the poor creature, least of all before he's had his fill. 

He lays their cheeks together, the man's boyish smoothness against his rough stubble and beard, and he can feel the brush of their chests with each panting breath. It's beautiful how alive he seems now, and he can feel the trembling in his limbs without even pinning him down. "Tell me, boy," He whispers seductively, letting his smile rake his coarse cheek over that softness, relishing the thin trail of wetness a tear has left already, "Tell me... how does he take you? What does he like from you? What sorts of games?"

"...He..." His voice falters, catching on a soft, shaky breath, when Killian's hand palms across his chest and down to one hip. "Please, don't..." 

"Don't?" He echoes, eyebrow arching with his amused tone, and he loves the way this man blushes. The thigh beneath his palm is trembling and he wonders if the way he has his legs twisted beneath the pirate is hurting him. His body language screams timidity, something reluctant without being coy. It occurs to him that he has his answer, despite his inability to voice it - the man is positively virginal.

"He likes you to be frightened, doesn't he?" He whispers, keeping his voice husky and his lips near the man's ear. "Likes to see you turn pink with shame, hear that pretty voice quiver, doesn't he? And I'll wager you're quite the little songbird, aren't you, lovely?" The man beneath him is panting now, hoarse ragged breaths as tears leak down his face. "Gods, you're a charming thing," He murmurs, kissing him hard on the mouth despite himself. 

He tastes sweet, warm and yielding, with a hint of salt. His teeth are crooked under Killian's tongue, but he makes no attempt to fight him or to return the kiss, merely stilling beneath his onslaught, crying harder into their joined mouths. It's intoxicating and he cannot wait to bury himself in the man, to turn him inside out while drinking from the fountain of his lips. 

"Does he tell you he loves you?" He murmurs, pulling back only a hair's breadth, and the man sobs out loud then, curling to his side and burying his face in his hands. Killian lets him, easing back to watch his shoulders shake with the force of his weeping. It's simultaneously shaming and arousing and the contradiction fascinates. A terrible, dangerous seed begins to take root in the core of him, but he pushes the thought away savagely. And yet.

It takes no effort at all to yank the man lower down, forcing him flat on his back on the bed. Those dark eyes widen, almost achingly so, as the captain straddles his shoulders, letting his thighs clench lightly, pinning him in place. He is completely still beneath him, staring up at him with endlessly miserable eyes. There's no mistaking this position and he doesn't bother to insult the man's intelligence by doing anything but what he's come for.

The lacings giving way make him groan, and even his own fist closing around his swollen flesh seems strangely erotic in this position. The man tries to turn his head, but he traps him there, framing his face with both hand, surprisingly gentle despite himself. It is the lack of violence in the gesture that makes the difference, he senses. Obediently, the man closes his eyes and opens those small, pink lips. 

Killian groans like a man being run through as he eases himself downward. The angle is odd and he cants his hips, twisting until he is practically lying atop the man, running his length into that soft, hot mouth. He is well-trained, closing his mouth down into a tight sheath, but there is still something bird-like and frightened in the way he swirls his tongue against the shaft, laving at the head, as though he is terrified of getting it wrong, of displeasing. So very virginal, even as he sucks and bobs at him like a well-taught whore. The juxtaposition is so very intriguing, but he cannot dwell on it long, not with this sweet, skilled heat drinking him down. 

There are hands on his hips, not pushing him away, merely clutching at him, and he thrusts harder in response, rewarded for the effort by a strangle, choked scream. It runs through him like a lightening bolt, and he isn't even sure how long he has been rocking his hips back and forth, but he is certainly coming now. The climax unspools almost lazily, making him sigh with deep-set pleasure as the slave swallows him down without complaint or hesitation. He draws back and presses his face into the sweat-drenched skin of his throat, pressing a hard kiss there as he pets his hands through that soft, dark hair. "That's a good lad," He murmurs, and he's not certain which one of them is shaking, but it feels so good that he doesn't even mind if it is him. 

Feeling powerful and generous, he draws back further, slipping down the man's body to rest between his thin legs. Those dark eyes are on him, utterly guileless and confused. He doesn't do more than lift himself a fraction onto his elbows, watching the man as though he might transform into a serpent or worse. Killian laughs, the sound oddly breathless, and he reaches then for the sash at his waist. 

The slave struggles then, not with much heart, but there is an undercurrent of urgency to the way he pushes against the hands on his hips, twisting and trying to wriggle away. Killian catches him easily, and it takes no effort to flip him suddenly onto his stomach. He pins him there, one hand wrenching the man's right arm up behind his back, the other gathering a fistful of hair and pressing hard against him. "No, no, no," He tsks lightly, "That won't do at all, laddie..." 

He goes still again, breathing heavily, but no longer fighting. Killian doesn't buy the gesture, taking the opportunity to catch both wrists and bind them tightly with the discarded sash. His bound wrists settle into the small of his back as he is turned over once more, his trousers slipping easily in the process. He wears no smallclothes, and the reason for some of his reluctance becomes immediately obvious. 

Killian pauses, stunned into stillness of his own by the sight of him. The slave's face is dark with shame and he averts his eyes, unable to look at the man looming over him. He bends down, looking closer, pulling the garmet further down those thin, shapely legs. 

He's heard of this sort of thing, obviously - every man has, and especially one who makes his living in a cruel and violent world, but never has he seen it done (not like this - not healed and finalized on a living creature). The slave has been mutilated, been unmade. It isn't castration - it is far more than that. His very manhood has been taken, leaving behind a small, scarred slit and an expanse of thin, patchworked skin. He has been completely emasculated, probably years ago. 

Unable to stop himself, he trails a hand down, letting his fingers brush lightly across the network of scars. The work seems to have been done in one blow, but the wound was wide and required stitches to close it. The fold of flesh that must allow for him to make water is small and barely raised, giving him the soft, almost smooth shape of a woman, but without the pertinent bits. The slave shudders wildly, a soft, wretched sound breaking from his throat, and Killian wonders how long it has been since someone has touched him here. Did his master run his fingers over him this way? Did he finger the tiny slit? Trace the edge of a nail down each raised scar? He realizes he is speaking aloud when the man sobs out a negative, but he only finds himself grinning in response.

"So he certainly has never done this..." It should be embarrassing, should feel demeaning, but as he lets the hot tip of his tongue skin those scars, it feels only powerful and cruel. The slave is screaming now, the sound utterly damning in how arousing it seems, and he responds by retracing his tongue's path with his teeth. The man's pelvic muscles clench, thighs slamming shut on either side of Killian's head, and he catches him roughly and brutally spreads his legs. The screams and cries continue as he pins him there, laving his tongue and lips over that damaged, ruined flesh, and he can feel the muscles trembling in what he realizes must be something like an orgasm. When the shrieks die down, he takes pity on the shuddering, quaking creature, relaxing his grip on the now-bruised thighs and pausing his delectable tortures with his mouth. 

"Please... please..." The slave is whimpering brokenly, and he chuckles darkly. 

"Really, I'd rather say I just did." There is no response but a tender, raw wail as he manipulates the body spread beneath him, turning him to lay face-down on the bed.


End file.
